


Bugged!

by delphia2000



Series: The Phobias [1]
Category: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delphia2000/pseuds/delphia2000





	Bugged!

Paul Blaisdell shuffled through a clinking jumble of keys, wishing for probably the thousandth time that he had marked the one he was looking for. Why Sgt. Broderick found it necessary to lock the front door every night, he didn't know. It just seemed annoyingly anal of Broderick especially when Paul had an armful of thick winter coat and a heavy briefcase to juggle, along with the over-loaded key ring. Anyone could access the office from the temporary cells, interrogation rooms and locker room below. However, since they'd have to get past the night desk on the first floor to do so, it was unlikely any unauthorized personnel would get that far. But his own behavior probably seemed as anal since every day he'd climb the stairs to enter via the front, when he could gain access through the back much more easily. Rituals and routines, he thought to himself as he finally sorted out the proper key.

With a satisfying click, he opened the lock, shouldering his way in and was immediately assaulted by the familiar odors of the workplace...the smell of the cleaning products used by the night janitor, the faint whiff of multiple bodies that occupied the place daily and the reek of burned coffee. Griffin must have pulled another all-nighter, he thought, peering around the corner at the detective's office. The door remained closed, so he strode on into his own office, dumping his armload onto a handy chair as he switched on the light. Kermit was either too busy to come out and greet him or dead asleep over his keyboard again, in which case Paul would rather not disturb him.

As he hung up his coat, he heard the front door open again as another of his team arrived. He didn't bother checking, knowing already the other early bird would be Blake. Sure enough, the fussy detective came in fuming, "One of these nights, he's going to burn the place down!" as he brandished the well-scorched pot.

Paul smiled. It was a familiar tune; the same played out at least a couple of times each month. "I'd be careful how you tell him that; you know how he is when you wake him. Maybe make the coffee first?" he suggested.

Blake shook his head, "I'm not going in there. Last time I did that, he had that big gun of his in my ear before I could open my mouth. Why is he allowed to keep that, by the way, since it's not standard issue for the force?"

Ignoring the question, Paul excused him, "You know he's been working particularly hard this week. That Stratford case has us all baffled."

"He still needs to get a life," Blake grumbled.

Paul looked at him, wondering if it was the right time and the little man blushed a bit as if reading his mind. "Don't give me that look. I had my life."

"It's not exactly over, Blake."

"The best part of it is for me, Paul. I'm content. And, you notice, I don't live at the office."

Paul leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. "Do you think we should tell him about girls?"

That brought the twinkle to the man's eyes that Paul knew could shine undimmed by thick lenses or bitter memories. "That would be a disservice to the ladies, now wouldn't it?" Blake shot back.

Paul laughed. "Probably. Now, are you going to hold that pot all morning or are you going to make us some coffee?"

"Coming right up, Captain."

Checking his calendar, Paul made several notes to himself and to others of his team before going through the brief outlines he received every night from his detectives, updating him on any progress on cases or on their own personal calendars. He wasn't paying any particular attention to the sounds of Blake's progress, but he heard the simultaneous loud yelp and crash which impelled him to his door in seconds.

Kermit had come to his doorway also, gun drawn and ready for battle. A pasty-faced Blake was backed against the wall as he pointed to the newly-spilled coffee grounds dusting the floor. Briskly exploring, a roach crawled among the grounds like a tiny Panzer tank surveying North Africa.

"One ex-bug espresso, hold the latte," commented Kermit, taking careful aim.

"Kermit!" Paul barked out.

The ex-merc gave him a pleading look. "Not a chance," Paul shook his head, folding his arms, "I remind you, there are people on the floor below us."

Sighing, Kermit shoved the gun in his waistband and took a step forward just as Blake grabbed his sleeve. Unafraid of the glare his boldness cost him, Blake begged, "Please, don't step on it! The sound. Horrible."

"Shall I call in the Humane Society to bring a live trap perhaps? Send it to the home for abandoned insects? Put it up for buggy adoption?"

"This isn't funny, Griffin. Just take it away, all right?" Blake pleaded.

"How the hell did you manage in the field, Blake?" Griffin asked.

"Same way you did. I put up with what I had to. I don't give you grief about your phobias, do I?" His hand fluttered in the general direction of the crawling creature. "These things spread disease. They're a scourge on the face of the earth."

"I think that was the bubonic plague, Blake, The Black Death, and that was carried by flea-ridden rats, not roaches. 14th Century; devastated London... "

Paul decided it was time to step in before Griffin really got going. Wound up and in full swing, the internet detective could put a rock concert audience to sleep with the sheer volume of dry facts and boring figures he kept in his head. "Blake, why don't you go and get the broom while Kermit and I take care of this."

The man's grateful glance as he retreated was not unnoticed by both. "He really does need to get over this," Kermit insisted. "You can't protect him forever."

"Protect? He was just suggesting you should find another way to spend your evenings other than burning up coffee pots while you snore, Griffin. Perhaps it's not a subject you'd like to delve into right now? So, how do you want to do this? He'll notice if you step on it."

"Easy," Kermit shrugged.

Paul had seen his friend and employee move with the speed of a jaguar when he needed to, but few humans could move faster than the common cockroach. Then again, Griffin was hardly common. With blur of smooth motion that even failed to unsettle the ever-present sunglasses, he reached down and grabbed the offending insect.

"You can crack them like walnuts, you know. They have a lot of protein in them," he commented with a grin. "Had any breakfast yet?"

"You took that survival course much too seriously, Kermit. Now what the hell are you going to do with it?"

The grin still intact, Griffin moved to a nearby desk and, opening the top drawer, dropped the captured critter inside before slamming it. "What else?" Griffin answered with raised eyebrows. "Bug the new guy's desk."

Then he sauntered off to his office, back to his beloved computer.

Paul stared a moment at the desk his foster son would be occupying for the first time, in about a half hour's time if the kid was more prompt than usual. With a bit of a chuckle, he returned to his own office, closing the door, but making sure the blinds were raised. He didn't want to miss a moment of this.

The End


End file.
